Claiming His Stepmother

Chapter Four: The First Payment

The grandfather clock in the downstairs hall chimes twelve times, each stroke sounding like a judge’s gavel.

Beside me, Arthur is a rhythmic, heavy presence.

He has already fallen into the deep, medicine-induced sleep of the elderly. His hand, thin and liver-spotted, rests near mine on the silk duvet.

Arthur hasn't touched me yet, exhaustion from the wedding and the weight of his age claimed him before he could even try.

I feel like a criminal as I slowly, inch by inch, slide out from under the covers.

My heart thunders so loudly I am certain the entire mansion can hear it.

I don’t wear a robe. I don’t put on slippers. Following Ethan’s whispered command from earlier, I remain in the only thing I have left from the wedding: the white lace garter belt and a pair of sheer stockings. I throw a silk trench coat over myself, the cold air of the hallway biting at my bare legs as I slip out of the master suite.

Every creak of the floorboards makes me freeze, my breath hitching in my throat. I am the mistress of this house, yet I am sneaking through the dark like a thief.

I reach the heavy black door at the end of the hall. I don’t even have to knock. It swings open before my hand can reach the wood.

Ethan stands there. He hasn’t slept. He is still wearing his dress slacks, but his shirt is gone, revealing the brutal, muscular landscape of his torso. The room behind him is lit only by the glowing embers in the fireplace.

"You’re three minutes late, Stepmother," he says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

"I had to wait for Arthur to—"

"I don't care about my father's schedule," Ethan interrupts, grabbing the lapel of my silk coat and dragging me inside. He kicks the door shut with a heavy thud. "I only care about mine."

He rips the coat off my shoulders, letting it pool on the floor like a discarded skin. His eyes travel over me, taking in the white lace and the uncontrollable trembling of my knees. A dark, satisfied smirk twists his lips.

"Look at you," he muses, stepping closer until I am backed against the cold stone of the fireplace mantle. "The picture of innocence. Does my father know his angel is standing in his son's bedroom dressed like a high-end w***e?"

"Stop it, Ethan," I whisper, tears stinging my eyes. "Just... do what you're going to do so I can go back."

"You are eager to go back to his bed?" Ethan’s hand shoots out, his fingers tangling in my hair and pulling my head back with a sharp, painful tug. "You aren't going anywhere until I’ve collected every cent of tonight’s tax."

He spins me around, forcing my chest against the mantle. The stone is freezing against my skin, while the heat radiating from his body presses into my back.

"You think because you put on a ring, you've escaped the club? You've escaped me?"

Smack.

The sound of his hand hitting my bum is loud and sharp in the quiet room.

I let out a choked cry, my fingers digging into the stone mantle. The sting is immediate; a blossoming heat that makes my breath come in ragged gasps.

"Answer me, Zola," he growls, his hand coming down again.

Smack.

"Are you my father’s? Or are you mine?"

I bite my lip, refusing to speak. The silence only fuels his rage.

Smack.

He hits me harder this time, the blow echoing off the walls.

Smack.

"Ethan… please!"

"I will keep striking you until you answer me," he says, his voice thick with a dark, terrifying anger.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

"I'm... I'm yours," I sob, the shame of the words hurting more than the physical blows.

"Louder."

Smack.

"I'm yours, Ethan! Please!" I cry out, my voice breaking in the dark.

He doesn't stop immediately. He delivers a rhythmic, stinging punishment that leaves my skin flushed and throbbing. He continues until his own breath is heavy, marking me with the heat of his palms.

It is a terrifying, carnal display of power. He is branding me, reminding me that no matter what name I carry in the light, I belong to the darkness he provides.

Then, he flips me over, pinning me to the mantle. His eyes are wild, consumed by a lust that looks more like hatred. He claims my mouth in a kiss that tastes of iron and obsession, his hands roaming over me with a bruising intensity.

"You’re going to be the death of me, Sapphire," he mutters against my lips, his voice raw. "But I’m going to make sure you break first."

Ethan’s breathing is a harsh, jagged sound in the quiet of the room. He isn't finished with the punishment; he’s just beginning the claim.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my lace panties, the delicate fabric standing no chance against his brutal strength. With one savage tug, the lace snaps, fluttering to the floor like a wounded butterfly. I feel utterly exposed, my skin still throbbing from the heat of his palms, but he doesn't give me a second to breathe.

His hands move down, gripping my waist with a bruising force as he drags me away from the mantle and slams my back against the cold wall.

"Look at me, Sapphire," he commands, his voice a low growl.

I open my eyes, my vision blurred with tears and lust. He looks feral. He reaches out, his hand cupping my breast, squeezing it with a rough intensity that makes me gasp.

Then, he leans down, his mouth replacing his hand. He doesn't tease; he bites.

He sucks the sensitive peak of my breast so hard I feel the pull deep in my core.

I cry out, my head thumping back against the wall, but he only uses the sound to fuel him. His teeth graze my skin, leaving a sharp, stinging trail as he moves his way up to my neck.

"Ethan, wait—" I moan, but the protest is weak, barely a whisper.

"No waiting," he growls against my throat, his breath hot and ragged.

He sinks his teeth into the soft junction where my neck meets my shoulder. I feel the sharp pinch, the searing sensation of his mark being branded into my flesh.

He sucks the skin, a deliberate, slow motion that I know will leave a dark, angry bruise by morning. A bruise that no amount of silk or concealer can truly hide.

"Now my father will know you were hunted tonight," he whispers darkly, his satisfaction chilling me to the bone.

Before I can fully process the terror of that thought, Ethan’s hands are under my thighs. He hoists me up with a sudden, effortless surge of strength. I wrap my legs around his waist instinctively, my fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders.

He doesn't waste time with a slow entry. He thrusts into me with a raw, bruising depth that steals the oxygen from my lungs. My back hits the wall with every rhythmic, violent strike. The friction is a beautiful torture, a collision of his anger and my desperate surrender.

"You're mine," he grunts, his pace increasing until the world is nothing but the scent of his skin and the brutal sound of our bodies colliding. "Not his. Never his."

I bury my face in the crook of his neck, sobbing his name into his skin.

The climax hits me like a freight train, shattering whatever was left of my resolve. I am ruined. I am marked.

And as Ethan finally stills, his forehead resting against mine while we both gasp for air, the reality of what I’ve done crashes down on me.

He lets my legs slide down until my feet hit the floor. I’m shaking so hard I can barely stand.

Ethan reaches out, his thumb grazing the dark, angry mark he left on my neck. A cold, satisfied smirk crosses his face.

"Consider this your first lesson, Zola. My father wants a companion. I want a sinner. And you? You're going to give us both exactly what we paid for."

"Better start thinking of a good lie, Stepmother," he murmurs, stepping back and reaching for his Scotch. "The sun comes up in four hours. And Arthur Reynolds likes to have breakfast together."